Once more I find the ripe persimmons
After they have rotted in the ground.
Homestyle tofu
Coagulated crushings of legumes
Fried, with fruits of last year’s rotting dead.
Prune the leafy excess of a kingdom.
Add garlic, chilies, soy sauce. Simmer briefly.
Winning the battle of Halloween decorations without even trying.
Somewhere along Crabtree Creek this morning. Also seen but not photographed, where the creek floods into a lake, the tiniest turtle I have ever seen—its shell could not have been two inches long—swimming with desperate and ineffective persistence against the current.
Ode to a (now vanished) used book store, 2005
The used book store beckoned. The door when he opened it to the cool dark air welcomed with the old-fashioned jangle of a metal bell; the tattooed clerk looked up over squarish glasses and smiled. Classical music, of course, on the radio. He wandered the aisles, ran his finger rippling along the spines, the titles a blur, the smell of dust and mold enfolding. So many books. A ludicrous number of books, unimaginably many.
At last, the six-panel willow oak carving.
One green thing beside another,
Shoulder to shoulder, brother to brother,
Sure broad leaf and frilly sinner—
The knife comes for all, and makes them dinner.
Swan song of the Blue Lake (green bean, that is)
In late April I planted a row of Blue Lake green beans along a makeshift trellis by the side of my house—old metal fenceposts and jute twine, same as I use for tomatoes. I wove a soaker hose through them to keep the soil wet through a dry spring. They sprouted. They grew. They occasionally flowered. They did not make a single damn bean. In mid-July I gave up and quit watering, and since two wet weeks in early August they have had no more than a sprinkle or two.
Memento mori? What the hell. You’re going to die—you might as well.
